


The Pox

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Adopted Children, Angst, Chicken Pox, Fluff, Found Family, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Illnesses, Jaskier Helps, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sick Character, Sick Ciri, Sickfic, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Swearing, Young Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:54:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22285174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Jaskier mentions other things about the supposed enchanted disease spreading throughout the south; what it seemingly does to people, how it spreads, how long people last once they contract it. Geralt huffs. It’s the pox. He knows it. A dangerous thing, of course. As Jaskier said, it can absolutely kill a mortal man. But it’s been a long time since he’s had to worry about something like the pox.Jaskier and Ciri, on the other hand.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 38
Kudos: 802
Collections: GERALT AND JASKIER ARE FUCKING GAY





	The Pox

**Author's Note:**

> Me: "Hey, maybe you should work on those other two Geralt/Jaskier things you're nearly finished with? Or maybe that novel you've been sitting on for 10+ years? How about it? Or maybe, just maybe, you should go to sleep, considering it's almost 3am and you've been feeling like poop all day?"
> 
> Also Me: *slamming pots and pans together* SICKFIC. SICKFIC. SICKFIC. SOFT GERALT. GOOD DAD GERALT OF RIVIA. HELPFUL JASKIER. 
> 
> Me: "Alright then."

Bad luck has a nasty tendency to stack. Out of many lessons learned throughout his already too-long of a life, that’s one that Geralt sees occurring again and again. With Nilfgaard accosting the south of the continent, sending refugees scrambling upwards, that now seems to be the least of people’s worries.

Refugees can be housed and fed. Geralt watches from their booth in the local tavern as another small wave of them laps inside, shepherded in by the tavern owner’s daughter. The group – a family, Geralt guess – looks as weary as the rest of them. The rooms upstairs are all gone. They filled up a couple of days ago. But while he imagines the rest of them will stay, Geralt is pretty keen on moving from the town in the next few days.

But someone brought word into the town that an illness was starting to spread; and if that’s true, then that rumour has spread faster than the illness. And that could cause issues. If townspeople knew that refugees could be ill, could be carrying a disease with them, they might turn them away. And that will just lead to bodies surrounding the gates of towns and cities, attracting all sorts of creatures to come and feed.

“A smith’s wife told me that a warlock working for Nilfgaard conjured it, and then let it loose on some trading village. The damn thing spread like wildfire,” Jaskier says, plucking at the strings of his lute. The inn is pretty quiet, with most people – locals and refugees alike – all content to sit in silence. Whether or not anyone has an issue with the bard in the corner strumming a couple of notes, no one voices them. Then again, Geralt doubts they would say anything, knowing that an armed Witcher sits next to the bard.

“It’s the pox,” Geralt grunts, handing a bread roll over to the man. He’s heard whisperings about the illness, and everything he’s heard so far would suggest it’s the pox: sweats, fever, coughing, rashes and spots on the skin.

Jaskier hums, setting his lute aside. “To you, maybe. It can kill a mortal man.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “And when were you talking to a smith’s wife?”

The bard laughs softly. “Towns like these are ripe with gossip and those who like trading in it.” One of Jaskier’s hands settles on his thigh. Geralt sighs as Jaskier squeezes firmly. “I’m yours, and you’re mine. You don’t have to worry about some woman spiriting me away.”

Ciri keeps her head down, slurping at the overly generous portion of stew that another of the tavern keeper’s daughter had provided them with. _Your father dealt with a cockatrice who’d been causing some issues around here a couple of summers ago_ , the tavern owner said, ushering them over to a booth near the back of the inn. It was secluded enough to keep them out of prying eyes. Since sitting down, their table has been laden with bowls of stew, bread rolls with pots of freshly churned butter, and tankards of ale. The keeper had returned a few moments later, handing Geralt a key to what he was assured to be a spacious room for all of them.

The word still stalked around in Geralt’s head. _Father_. He doesn’t know what he is to the girl. He’s never been able to find the right sort of word for it.

They eat the rest of their dinner in relative peace. Jaskier mentions other things about the supposed _enchanted disease_ spreading throughout the south; what it seemingly does to people, how it spreads, how long people last once they contract it. Geralt huffs. It’s the pox. He knows it. A dangerous thing, of course. As Jaskier said, it can absolutely kill a mortal man. But it’s been a long time since he’s had to worry about something like the pox.

Jaskier and Ciri, on the other hand.

“Keep an eye out,” he says softly after a time. Even though sheltered away from others in the inn, Geralt tentatively brushes his hand along Jaskier’s. Most towns aren’t fond of this kind of interaction: something they’ve experienced in the years of travelling together. Fleeting insults are always quickly chased away when Geralt turns, seeking out the pitiful excuse for a man that hurls them. They usually scurry away like field mice. But even then, he’s careful.

Jaskier reaches out with his index finger, snagging Geralt’s. His skin is warm, Geralt notices with a slight shiver. Suddenly, weariness from the past couple of days on the road slinks upon him, slumping over his shoulders. Geralt looks over to the other side of the table. He nudges Ciri’s knee with his own. “Both of you.”

The girl looks up, and nods firmly. “I’ll be careful.”

* * *

Something is out to get him. Some god or deity or power just doesn’t like him at all. He can understand why; his very existence must be an insult to the natural order of things. No creature made of the earth should live as long as he does. If he were a god, tasked with creating things and putting them in a sequence, and he saw someone _tampering_ with it, he’s pretty sure he’d go out of his way to make that thing’s life a fucking misery too.

All it takes it for Geralt to hear one cough – a clearing of the throat – for his hackles to rise. The market of the town is packed with people. A town that normally houses two to three hundred now is holding what seems to be ten times that amount. _It’s nothing_ , Geralt thinks. _It couldn’t have spread that quickly._

But apparently it has.

A couple of hours later, when the sun has long since fled behind the Blue Mountains, and the moon has taken its place, something wakes Geralt up.

Moonlight streams in through a small gap in the curtains. Streaks of white, watery light crawl along the floorboards and reach for the foot of their bed. Geralt grunts, rubbing a hand over his face. Along his back, curled around him, Jaskier still sleeps soundly. For a moment, he isn’t entirely sure why he’s awake. They’ll be moving out of the town in the morning, and while he can go longer than most without sleeping, his muscles and bones are complaining about not getting rest. He waits for a second, ears tuned to the sounds of the inn. Floorboards creak as the nights grow cold, and someone outside staggers through the hallway, eventually falling into what must be their own room.

The arm that Jaskier has around his middle tightens. “What are you doing?” the words are mumbled into Geralt’s shoulder blade, raspy and sleep-laden.

Geralt hums, content to settle his head back down on to the pillow and let sleep wash back over him. He’s almost gone, when he hears it again.

A cough. Followed by a whimper.

He sits upright, dislodging himself from Jaskier’s hold. The bard grunts, throwing his arm over his eyes. “Geralt-”

Even in the minimal lighting, Geralt can see perfectly fine. He looks over to the other bed. Curled up and cocooned in bed linens and furs is Ciri. He can barely see the top of her head, sticking out of the nest she has made for herself. Geralt is out of bed in seconds, padding over to the other cot. “Ciri,” he says softly.

“’m cold.” The words are shaken out of her. They’re barely audible; Geralt notices her face buried into one of the pelts that had been for the foot of the bed.

Geralt makes a noise in the back of his throat. Behind him, he hears bedclothes shuffling. “What’s going on?” Jaskier grunts, wiping the last of sleep from his eyes.

Geralt perches on the edge of Ciri’s bed. He presses the back of his hand against her forehead. He clicks his tongue. “You’re not cold, Ciri. You’re sweating.”

The shivers wracking through her body say otherwise. Her teeth chatter, despite a sheen of sweat sticking to her forehead and the apples of her cheeks. Geralt seeks out his bag, fishing through it for some herbs he had bought from the town’s apothecary. She had given him the last of what she had, saying that with whispers of an illness spreading, most of her wares had been cleared quickly.

Elderflower, yarrow, calamine, and celandine. The hearth on the other side of the room is still burning, albeit, grey ash sits on top of still lighting embers. It still carries heat. Geralt can feel the warmth of it even at the other side of the room. But it won’t do for tea-making. “Find the innkeeper,” he says tightly, “ask for a kettle of hot water, but make sure no one comes up with you.”

Jaskier doesn’t move for a second. When Geralt looks over his shoulder, ready to ground out the order again, his eyes soften when he sees the bard watching Ciri tremble. But Geralt’s words seemingly catch up with Jaskier, and within seconds, he’s gone.

When Geralt turns back to Ciri, two blue eyes blink blearily up at him. “Am I sick?” Her voice barely holds together. “Do I have what the others have?”

Geralt clicks his tongue. “I’ll have to take a look at your skin,” he sighs. “But if it is, I can help you. You’ll be okay.”

She nods. Another cough fights its way out of her. It sounds watery and tacky, and almost has her folding in two. Geralt winces. He sets his hand on top of the mound of blankets she has around her, silently hoping that whatever it is that’s infected her will leave peacefully.

Jaskier comes back within minutes, a copper kettle in one hand. Geralt turns, holding his hand up. “Have you had it before?”

The bard’s brow furrows. “What?”

“The pox, Jaskier,” Geralt grunts. “Have you had it before?”

“When I was a child,” he answers, brow furrowed. “We all had it in my family.”

“You’ll be fine then.” Geralt directs him over to the hearth. Settling the kettle over the embers, there’s enough heat there to keep the water inside simmering. Geralt adds the leaves, stirring and steeping them until he can scent the aromas in the air. It’ll have to stew for a couple of minutes, but until then, he has to look at Ciri’s skin.

Jaskier follows him throughout the room, gathering a change of clothes for Ciri as well as some bed linens from a nearby wardrobe. When Geralt returns to her bedside, the girl whines. She’s still shaking like a leaf, but he’ll need to bring her fever down. The tea will help, but until then, Geralt sighs. “You can’t have that many blankets around you, Ciri. You’ll overheat.”

“But I’m so cold.”

“That’s your body trying to help.”

“Well, it isn’t doing a very good job.”

Despite his best efforts, a small smile tugs at the corner of his lip. “Pox can’t survive in warm conditions,” he explains, recalling on things a healer told him decades ago. “Your body is just trying to burn it out.”

Jaskier sets the clothes and bedding at the foot of Ciri’s bed. He still wears a concerned look, watching the girl closely. He shares a brief look with Geralt. The kind of look they’ve shared quite a lot recently. Since acquiring Ciri, and finding Jaskier again, they’ve become a quaint little unit. A family, one could dare to name it. Jaskier loves the girl just as much as Geralt does. They would both lay down their lives for her. But it’s fine to say all of that when the threat is physical – monsters or soldiers or bandits, all vying for her life in one way or another. But when it’s something like this, an illness tearing her apart from the inside, they’ve never felt so useless in their lives.

The kettle whistles from the other side of the room. Jaskier turns to tend to it. Geralt finds the edge of one blanket, tugging it away from Ciri. “Come now,” he gentles, “I can’t help you if you’re hiding in there.”

It takes a moment to get the blankets away, but once Ciri’s cocoon unfurls, Geralt tosses the linens and furs to one side of the room, far away from her. If it’s pox, then the sheets are infected. She’s still so small; something that Geralt can’t seem to do anything about. No matter how much food she eats, or how hard she trains in the mornings, she can’t seem to put on any amount of muscle. But she looks even smaller now, trembling and sweating and teeth chattering.

Geralt sits, gesturing to the sleeve of her nightshirt. “Can I?”

Ciri nods, helping Geralt roll her sleeve up towards her shoulder. Even without the candles around the room lighting, Geralt can make out her skin just fine. And he swallows the lump forming in his throat. Tiny, barely-there splotches, speckled all over her skin. Some of them are redder than the others, rising up slightly like oil spots. Geralt sets his jaw. “I need you to listen to me, alright?”

Ciri nods again, looking at him expectantly.

“You are _not_ to scratch these,” he gestures to the spots. “No matter how much you want to.”

Jaskier makes a sound from the other side of the room. “The only scar I have was caused by one of them,” he says simply, stoking the embers of the fire. Ciri tilts her head. Jaskier smiles, pointing to his jaw. “It’s small, but I scratched a pox spot, and it left a mark.”

“It also just makes the rash worse. So don’t scratch,” Geralt says. His tone is one he uses when they’re out in the forest, teaching her the difference between plants, and how to properly hold on to a sword. Ciri looks at her arm, taking in the map of marks left by the illness.

“I won’t,” she says.

“Good. Do you feel able to walk?”

“I think so.”

“Take this,” Geralt places a couple of chamomile leaves into her hand, “and make a paste out of it in the washroom. Spread it all over you.” He picks up the bundle of new clothes from the foot of the bed. “After that, change into these. You’ll feel better.”

In the time it takes Ciri to do what he’s asked, the pungent smell of the tea settles over the room. Jaskier lifts the lid of the pot, inspecting it. His nose wrinkles. “I remember when the nursemaid made this for me,” he groans. “Horrid stuff.”

Geralt shushes him. “She needs to drink it.”

When Ciri steps back into the room, she does look slightly better. The tea will chase away the fever, and hopefully, the paste will cool the spots from getting worse. Geralt beckons her over. They’ve changed the sheets on her bed, and when she slides in, Ciri’s body shakes slightly again. “You’ll warm up in a bit,” Geralt assures her.

The tea helps. Whether it’s the herbs themselves or the warmth of the water seeping through her, Geralt has to pluck the cup out of her hand before Ciri falls back asleep. This time, to his relief, her body lies still, with her chest filling steadily with air. Geralt reaches out, brushing some of her hair back from her forehead. Her hair is still sleeked with sweat, but she’ll have to have an oatmeal bath tomorrow, so she can wash then.

It all looks so calm now.

Geralt sets the cup to the side. He has enough herbs to make another brew in the morning. After that, he’ll have to seek out the farmers living just outside of the town, asking for a bucket of oats. Or whatever they can spare, now that winter and a war seem keen on settling over the continent at the same time. It won’t cure her spots. They’ll go away by themselves. But it’ll help with the itching, once that niggle starts.

Watching her now, from his perch on the edge of his own bed, Geralt finally breathes. The room lapses into silence. The air settles. Every so often, it’s broken by a slight wheeze from Ciri. Geralt tries not to wince at the noise. But she’s breathing, and sleeping soundly.

It’s torture. Worse than anything he ever experienced in Kaer Morhen. Geralt flinches slightly when arms wind over his shoulders. Recognising the touch, he leans back, sighing when his back presses against the firm wall of Jaskier’s chest. “It’s probably a stupid question to ask,” the bard mumbles, settling his hands over Geralt’s chest and torso, “but are you alright?”

Geralt huffs a dry laugh. “Not at all.”

Jaskier clicks his tongue. Hugging the Witcher closer to him, Jaskier hooks his chin over Geralt’s shoulder. “She’ll be fine,” he reasons. “Children get sick all the time. And rather she gets the pox now, than later when it can do her more harm.”

He knows. Of course, he knows. Some distant, logical part of him _knows_. But it just happens that that particular part of his brain hasn’t been communicating very well with the rest of his mind – especially where Ciri is concerned. He wonders distantly if this is how all guardians feel when their charges are in danger.

“It seems the _White Wolf_ has grown gentle,” Geralt mutters. Whatever fear that had been coursing through his veins is being chased off now. The warmth radiating along his back from Jaskier sees to that.

The bard hums. “A wolf’s single most important duty is to protect its family, isn’t it?” Jaskier murmurs. Gesturing to Ciri, Jaskier continues. “She’ll be up and about, gallivanting off into forests and caves with you again in no time at all.”

Geralt turns his head. His nose brushes along the arch of Jaskier’s cheekbone. Setting his lips against the ridge, he sighs. “Thank you for helping,” he mumbles against skin, turning in Jaskier’s hold.

“I know that in the grand scheme of destiny, she belongs to you,” Jaskier sighs, tilting his head when Geralt’s lips move towards his neck. “But you belong to me. So, by proxy, I guess she’s mine, too.”

Jaskier has to swallow a hum when he feels a puff of a laugh against his neck. “It seems so.”

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: yourqueenforayear.tumblr.com
> 
> Kudos & Comments very much welcomed!


End file.
